


Bodyslam

by DabMyWetties



Category: Pentatonix, Superfruit
Genre: Alternate Universe - Wrestling, Consensual Violence, Eventual Smut, Explicit Language, Fights, M/M
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-08-26
Updated: 2017-08-30
Packaged: 2018-12-20 01:08:46
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 4,470
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11910063
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/DabMyWetties/pseuds/DabMyWetties
Summary: "I’m sure whatever training you’ve already had is fine, but I need to make sure that it’s great before you’ll be allowed to wrestle under our name. Until that time, you are my bitch."Scott is a young, driven worker trying to make it in professional wrestling.To make it, he has to get by Mitch first.





	1. Snacks

**Author's Note:**

> This is a lot of people's fault on Twitter. 
> 
> After the preview of the Future Friends music video was released today, the calls for fic went out and so here I am.  
> And here this is.
> 
> A glossary of terms used in this fic can be found at [this link on Wattpad](https://www.wattpad.com/461228798-bodyslam-glossary-of-terms)!

It’s hard to describe the feeling the first time your body hits the ground for the day. As Mitch sucks a breath while lying stunned at the bad bump he just took, he struggles to come up with the words. Ideally he would have tucked his chin just a bit more to avoid slamming his head into the canvas, and he would have exhaled on the split-second fall instead of holding his fucking breath because he  _ knows  _ better. If he’d done those things, his body would have snapped backwards and landed with its usual jarring, neck-stinging crash, bodyweight spread evenly across the flat of his back to maximize noise while minimizing pain. 

Instead he’d fucked up, stayed too loose, and knocked the wind out of himself. 

Ain’t the first time, won’t be the last. 

He gives himself a second to breathe, then with a snap of his hips he kips up into a crouch before racing full-bore into the opposite turnbuckle. He spins at the last second, his back slamming into the padded corner and his head whiplashing enough to look painful. The force of the impact throws him forward and he falls flat on his face. The sound of his body hitting the mat echoes through the nearly empty arena beautifully, punctuated by a practiced grunt that isn’t wholly intentional.

Ahhhh. That was a good one. Mitch has a moment to relish the almost pleasant tingly stinging sensation across his chest and abdomen before he leaps to his feet again, and then he’s off and running. This time he takes the turnbuckle with his chest, bounces off, and falls cleanly onto his back. 

He stands and looks over the ropes at the two trainees watching him from the floor below. “Who’s first?” he asks, voice even and unbothered by the apparent brutality of what he’d just been doing.

Chuck, the bolder of the two, hops up on the apron, climbs through the ropes and into the ring. Chuck isn’t his real name. Mitch doesn’t remember his real name; most of ‘em don’t last more than a few weeks of training so he gives everyone nicknames and doesn’t bother getting to know anything about ‘em until their first show. Chuck is short for chucklefuck, because this one’s got an attitude that’s either gonna get him stiffed until he learns to rein it in or it’ll get him on TV if he learns to use it the right way. Mitch is pretty sure it’s the former, though. 

“You know how to do this, Chuck,” he says. “Do what I did as cleanly as you can. Turnbuckle, back bump, up, turnbuckle front bump, up, turnbuckle back bump, up. Fast.” He watches Chuck run and fall from corner to corner as instructed. His bumps are a little delayed and he sells like shit, but he’s getting somewhere. 

“Chuck, dude,” Mitch says patiently. “Make me believe someone just threw you like a fucking rag doll into that buckle. Sell it to me. Do it again.” 

Chuck runs the drill a few more times until Mitch is slightly more satisfied, and then Twiggy gets in the ring for his turn. Mitch isn’t nearly as critical with him. Twiggy’s got maybe another week before he drops out, so there’s no need to increase his stress or Mitch’s stress about how utterly mediocre he is. 

“Run the ropes,” he tells his trainees. “Five minutes, cross over each time, do not fucking stop.” Mitch watches as they start to run, clumsily at first, but quickly finding some sort of rhythm. It’s hypnotic, and even though his days of running drills like this are long behind him, on some level Mitch misses it. Chuck is obviously taking it more seriously, his boots pounding across the mat as he runs, turns to bounce his back off the ropes, and times his steps back across correctly so he doesn’t collide with Twiggy doing the same thing crosswise.  Mitch takes note of the fact that Chuck is adjusting his pace to accommodate a struggling Twiggy and reminds himself to point it out to the kid later. “Three minutes!” he bellows. 

Mitch grabs his phone from the announcers’ table to check the time. The new guy is supposed to be there at 2:30 sharp for his working interview. With eighteen minutes until then, Mitch mentally rearranges his plans for this training session a little so he can keep the greens busy while he talks to this Hotwing dude. 

The hell kind of gimmick name is fucking  _ Hotwing  _ of all things? He decides he’ll call the new guy Snacks until he earns his place. 

“Ten…nine…” Mitch shouts, counting down what may or may not have been five actual minutes of running time for the now-panting trainees in the ring. He makes another mental note to run them more. Their wind fucking sucks. “Grab a drink. Your endurance is shit. You both need to be working on running between classes because at this point you will  _ die  _ before you make it past the tieup in a real match.” He can see Chuck start to sneer, can almost hear the smartass reply on his lips, but fortunately the kid thinks better of it. Shit, he’s actually learning. 

His internal clock tells him he’s got about twelve minutes. “Five minutes of stretching,” Mitch tells the trainees. “Then you’re gonna work on some basic opening sequences while I talk to the new guy. Got it?” 

They’ve got it. Mitch uses those five minutes to think about the match he’s booked in tonight. Should be straightforward enough; he’s worked with Psycho so often that they could get their booking ten minutes before belltime and still tear the place down. Shit, that’s actually happened more than once. Today he’s got the luxury of time, though, and with that time he tries to decide if the turning point in their feud should be tonight or next week. 

Definitely tonight. He’ll let Psycho get his heat tonight, then next week draw it out before wrapping it up at Slaughterhouse Eight the week after. 

Time to move on. Mitch hops up on the apron and steps through the ropes. “Alright, guys. Listen close cuz I’m only telling you once. Ready?” They nod. “Tieup. Tackle, dropdown, hiptoss, tieup again, and chain until I tell you to stop. I expect a solid five minutes without a fuckup. Remember to talk to each other. Annnnd…” he climbs out of the ring and back down to the floor. “Go.” 

He’s not surprised when they fuck it up three seconds in. “What’re you  _ doing, _ Twiggy! Tackle, dropdown,  _ hiptoss! _ No hesitation. Again, and do it right this time.” The trainees lock their arms together and Mitch can see Chuck talking Twiggy through the next steps. Good. There’s hope yet. 

Mitch is watching the two muddle their way through the most basic opening sequence in all of professional wrestling when he hears the clunk and creak of the security door behind him. Snacks must be here, and probably about ten minutes early at that. Good first impression. “That’s right, Twig, he’s got you in a hammerlock. How do you reverse a hammerlock? Sell it while you figure it out.” Poor Twiggy. The fire’s already gone from his eyes. 

Satisfied that his charges are safely practicing hold reversals, Mitch turns around to deal with Snacks. 

Fuuuuuuuck. 

He almost loses his composure. Snacks is a whole fucking meal, and one who apparently needs a better promo photographer because the guy standing behind the security barricade waiting to be greeted bears only a passing resemblance to the headshots he’d been given. With a practiced eye, Mitch sizes him up. Promo height of 6’3” looks right on target which is a rarity in this business. He’s got the whole blonde hair-blue eyes thing that works especially well in SoCal, and the muscle definition Mitch can see under Snacks’ tank top points to a natural worker which is good because he hates dealing with roidheads. Definitely has an old-school Edge vibe to him. 

Snacks is fucking hot, and his expression says that he knows it. 

“New guy. Hotwing, right?” Mitch asks. “C’mon over.” 

Snacks slides over the barricade easily and makes his way to Mitch. “Scott’s fine,” he says, taking Mitch’s proffered hand and shaking it vigorously. 

“Alright. I’m Mitch. You can call me Mitch. I’m the head trainer here at California Championship Wrestling Alliance and it’s my job to make sure your training is up to our standards. I don’t do names or gimmicks until you’re cleared for your first match with us so your name's Snacks until then. Got it?” 

Snacks eyes him up and down. “What if I don’t want to be called Snacks?” 

The response isn’t unexpected. It happens more often than not when semi-established workers get a tryout. Egos and all; you can’t escape ‘em in this business. “Then you can get the fuck out of my arena,” Mitch replies politely. He turns his head towards the ring. “Chuck! Help talk him through the transitions! C’mon dude!” 

He turns his attention back and Snacks is still standing there, still sizing him up. “Then Snacks it is, I guess,” he says after Mitch coolly meets his gaze.   

“Great!” Mitch exclaims. “Now we’re on the same page. Did Kevin run you through any details or just send you to me blind?” 

Snacks looks perplexed before recognition dawns. “Kevin? The booker, right? No, I don’t really know what to expect. He told me to be here at 2:30 and to be ready for a working tryout, so here I am.” 

“And here you are,” Mitch repeats. “Big guy in the ring is Twiggy and the one with the mohwak is Chuck. Once they’re done with their drills you’ll work with me. You will do what I tell you to do and run through whatever I tell you to run through because we do not fuck around at CCWA. I’m sure whatever training you’ve already had is fine, but I need to make sure that it’s  _ great  _ before you’ll be allowed to wrestle under our name. Until that time, you are my bitch.” 

Again, the reaction isn’t unexpected. Snacks looks truly offended and manages a sputter before Mitch cuts him off. 

“Check your ego at the door, Snacks,” he warns. “If you pass muster with me today, you’ll be on ring crew for tonight’s show - setup  _ and  _ teardown. If I decide you need more training I will provide you with a schedule of our classes, otherwise you’ll be expected to attend two workouts per week with the rest of the guys and work ring crew for at least two shows before you’re in front of our crowd. Take it or leave it.” 

Mitch is ready to give him time to think it over. Those that don’t walk out immediately usually take at least a few minutes to pretend to have some semblance of control over the whole situation, but it only takes Snacks two or three breaths to reply. “Take it,” he says, voice tight and strained. 

Excellent. They’re off to a fantastic start. 

  
  



	2. Hardway

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “Alright, prettyboy,” Mitch says between clenched teeth. “I know about fourteen different ways to put you on the ground and hurt you without your permission. Do I need to show you the other thirteen ?"

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Heads-up for blood in this chapter
> 
> A glossary of terms used in this fic can be found at [this link on Wattpad](https://www.wattpad.com/461228798-bodyslam-glossary-of-terms)!

“Gimme a critique on the greens,” Mitch says. He and Snacks are both leaning against the apron watching Chuck and Twiggy work in the ring. 

Snacks looks at him sidelong. “Is this a trick question? I’m not gonna say shit about your trainees.” 

Mitch sighs. “You can either start showing me you have a grasp of wrestling fundamentals by critiquing this performance in front of us or you can head on over to a backyard fed in East Buttfuck where I’m sure they’ll be glad to work a pretty boy who can’t follow simple directions for ten bucks a show.”

He can see Snacks’ spine stiffen in his peripheral vision and when he looks over from the corner of his eye Mitch almost smiles at the flush of anger turning all that pale skin a bright pink. 

Snacks focuses on the pair in the ring, his sharp jawline tensed and lips pressed into a thin line. “Mohawk guy. Chuck?” he begins, voice tight and quiet, and Mitch nods, watching him struggle to keep his cool. “Chuck’s rough but he’s got a good understanding of what needs to happen and when. Like his brain gets it but his body isn’t there yet. Needs repetitive practice until he doesn’t have to think anymore. Once it clicks for him he’ll be damn good. He sells for shit. Twiggy looks like he’d rather be anywhere but here and doesn’t know his left from his right. I’d be terrified to get in the ring with him.” 

Mitch grunts and nods. He hadn’t been looking for anything in particular, just a general understanding of what happens in the ring and the ability to talk about it. “Guys,” he shouts. “Two minutes, make ‘em count, then you’ll get a break.” 

He turns his attention to Snacks. “Stretch,” he gestures towards the gym mats they’re standing on. “Once they’re done you can warm up in the ring and then you’ll work me.” 

Mitch busies himself scribbling a few notes and ticking a couple boxes on the greens’ training charts in his binder. He allows himself one long look, being careful to keep his face impassive, as Snacks stretches. If he grew his hair long he’d look a whole lot like circa ‘99 Edge with that jawline and the blonde hair and  _ miles  _ of lean muscle and long limb.  _ Damn  _ it’s gonna be a nice afternoon in the ring today. 

“Hop out, guys,” Mitch calls to the two much less interesting men in the ring. “Snacks, lemme see you run the ropes. Chuck, Twig, take a break but pay attention up here. You might learn something by osmosis.” 

Snacks obediently knees up onto the apron in a fluid motion and steps between the top and middle ropes into the ring. He’s not a total klutz; so far so good. He leans his back into the rop rope a few times, testing its give and bounce, then takes off running. Over to the other side, bounce off the ropes, back across, bounce off the ropes, back over again, bounce off the ropes - Mitch lets him run for a couple minutes to warm up but he knew in the first 30 seconds that Snacks wasn't a total disaster. “Hold up,” he shouts over the cacophonous pounding of boots against canvas and steel. Mitch gets into the ring and takes position on the side of the ring to Snacks’ left. “Again, crossover.” 

They both run for a few passes, crossing each other in the middle of the ring. Mitch adjusts his pace periodically to see if Snacks can adjust on the fly. He can. Good. He signals to stop. “Lemme see your bumps,” he says, noting that Snacks is barely winded. 

Snacks is watching him. “Anything in particular?” he asks, and Mitch can hear the edge in his voice. This one isn’t used to being told what to do and doesn’t like it much. Normally Mitch would mentally count that as a negative. Something makes him want to press on and break this cocky fucker, though. 

Mitch has no misconceptions; that “something” is completely and utterly his libido. 

He waves his hand in Snacks’ direction. “However you wanna do it, Snacks. Just remember you’re here to impress me.” 

The steely gaze he gets in response is really pretty fantastic. He can’t help but grin a little.

Mitch leans against a turnbuckle and watches Snacks as he starts in one corner, runs to the opposite turnbuckle, and falls cleanly with a satisfying crash on his back. He repeats it several times, alternating between bumping on his back and on his front, until Mitch calls out for him to stop. 

“Good,” Mitch says with a nod. He bounces on his toes a few times and swings his arms back and forth to loosen his shoulders before dropping into a grappling position, knees bent and arms slightly extended. “Let’s go. You call, I’ll follow. Impress me.”

Snacks crouches into his own grappling position and they begin to circle each other in the ring. Mitch watches his body language and when he sees muscles tense and jaw clench he lets himself go on autopilot as they meet in the middle with a resounding crash. Snacks’ tieup is clean and strong and he keeps his footing well as Mitch moves to knock him off balance. A powerful arm snakes across the back of his neck and he’s pulled into a headlock that’s way too loose. He gives Snacks a second to tighten up and, when he doesn’t, Mitch easily slips his head free and levels a hard stare at Snacks. 

“Not good enough. The fuck kinda headlock was that?” he asks. 

Snacks frowns. “You’re a skinny little thing,” he gestures vaguely at Mitch. “I wasn’t about to hurt you.” 

Oh, is that how it’s gonna be? He keeps his expression steady. “Again, and do it right this time.” 

Once again they crouch, once again they circle, and once again they meet in the middle of the ring. This time, though, Mitch suddenly pivots when they meet so his back is to Snacks and in a fast, fluid motion, he twists his upper half to bodily throw the larger man over his hip and onto his back on the mat. With a quick step over the fallen body, he wraps his legs to trap Snacks’ right arm and falls to his back, adjusting to lock in a shoot armbar with Snacks’ forearm wedged firmly in Mitch’s crotch while one leg pins down that pretty blonde head. The whole thing takes under two seconds and Snacks’ yelp of surprise and pain is, indeed, very satisfying. 

“Alright, prettyboy,” Mitch says between clenched teeth. “I know about fourteen different ways to put you on the ground and hurt you without your permission. Do I need to show you the other thirteen or are you gonna act like a fucking worker and treat me like one?” 

Snacks’ eyes are wide. “Fuck, I’m  _ sorry, _ ” he gasps. He wants to struggle; Mitch can feel his body fighting the urge to struggle, knowing it’ll  _ really  _ hurt if he starts flopping around. Mitch waits a moment then releases his arm, rolling backwards and away in case Snacks comes up swinging. 

He doesn’t, though he does look properly chastised. “Won’t happen again,” Snacks mutters. 

Excellent. He’ll be easy to break. “Great!” Mitch replies with a bright smile. “Let’s get back to work!” 

The next half hour goes smoothly. Snacks is a little rough around the edges, but once they got over that little difference of opinion at the start of things, Mitch is actually pretty impressed. He’s got excellent control in the ring, knows a wide range of moves, and his ring presence is huge. 

“Take a breather, drinks are in concessions,” Mitch tells Snacks, gesturing towards the back of the large room. “Chuck, Twiggy, in the ring, chain wrestling until I send you home. Nothing crazy.” He heads to the announcers’ table to grab his binder and starts to jot notes on Snacks’ evaluation form. A few minutes later, he glances up when he hears footsteps approaching to see Snacks walking towards him with two bottles of water. 

All things considered, Snacks would be a perfectly fine addition to CCWA. He can wrestle. He’s got a look that can go in a million different directions both face and heel, and his size makes him ideal for working pretty much the entirety of the roster. He’s noted all that on his form and has already checked off the “Approved” box before Snacks holds out one of the waters to him. 

“Hey, look,” he begins when Mitch takes the bottle with a nod. “I didn’t mean to insult you earlier. It’s just -” 

Mitch cuts him off with a wave of his hand. “Apologies aren’t going to affect my decision.” Really, though, Mitch knows his decision was mostly made before Snacks stepped into the ring. 

He prides himself on his professionalism, but, hey, sometimes he slips. He’s got a weakness for blue eyes. 

“It’s not like that,” Snacks presses on. “I know better, and I shouldn’t have acted like that.”

Mitch misses the cockiness. He takes a long drink of water. “It happens, Snacks. As long as we understand each other, we’re cool. Are you able to work crew for the show tonight?” 

At first Snacks just looks shocked, and then a broad smile lights up his face as realization dawns. “Yeah, I mean… yeah, I was just gonna, y’know, go out, but… yeah I can be here.” 

A half-grin slips before Mitch can do anything about it. “Good,” he says, flipping to a different section of his binder and scanning some notes. “Ring’s in good shape right now so we’ll only need to switch out the ropes and canvas tonight. Easy setup. I’ll stick you on ring security to keep you busy and so you can get used to how shows operate. You can either head out and come back at five, or you can stick around. Some of the guys will be showing up soon and you can start meeting everyone.”

Snacks looks unsure. 

“I recommend you stick around, assuming you’ve got your gear bag and a change of clothes with you,” Mitch offers helpfully.  

Snacks sticks around.

Unsurprisingly, Kevin arrives before Mitch is finished dismissing his trainees for the day. “Work on your fucking endurance,” he shouts after the two as they leave before passing the new guy off on the booker. “Kev, this is Snacks. His sheet’s in my binder if you want a look but he’s good to go. I’ve got him on ring security tonight after he helps with setup.” 

Kevin nods and sweeps Snacks away for a chat, giving Mitch the first few moments of peace and quiet he’s had all day and the last he’ll have until sometime tomorrow. He takes a seat at the announcers’ table - his unofficial office when not in use for its intended purpose - and leans back to rest his eyes. Mitch stays in that position until he hears the sounds of wrestlers arriving. Time to take Snacks from Kev and introduce him around to the guys. 

***

“I’m not gonna remember anyone’s name,” Snacks mutters after a whirlwind of introductions. 

“S’okay,” Mitch replies, pausing to slap hands with Psycho as he walks by. “You’ll get there. Everyone answers to their gimmick name so just pay attention during the show and you’ll start picking it up. Just remember my name and use it to find me if you need help,” he says, not adding that Snacks should also remember his name because he’d sure like to hear him screaming it one day. 

“Does the girl really wrestle the dudes?” Snacks asks after a minute. 

Mitch laughs. “‘The girl’ is Kirstin and yes, she does. If I know fourteen ways to put a bigger guy on the ground, she knows at least thirty. She will absolutely  _ destroy  _ anyone who tests her so don’t get any ideas.” He pauses as Scott’s eyes search the arena to find the subject of their conversation. “She’s also getting married in a few months to one of the announcers, so don’t get any ideas there, either.” 

Snacks’ gaze turns back to Mitch. “She’s pretty. Not my type, though.” 

“Not a fan of brunettes?” Mitch asks. 

Snacks goes back to looking around at the bustle of wrestlers and crew around them. “Not a fan of boobs.” 

***

Even over the incessant clanging of the ring bell and the dramatic shouting of the ref to stop, to back off, that this match is over, on the seventeenth strike of the kendo stick against his skull Mitch can  _ hear  _ his head split open. It’s a wet ripping sound, and the previously sharp  _ thwack  _ of the bamboo cane becomes muted on contact.  A warm rush of blood begins to course down his forehead and into his eyes immediately. He stays where he was, on his knees against the ropes, and before his vision reds over he can see the brief look of panic on Psycho’s face before his opponent slips back into character and begins to cackle madly and stomp around the ring. 

“Get him outta here,” the ref is yelling and Mitch obediently drops to the mat and rolls out onto the apron where he’s met by an arm holding him steady and helping him to the floor. 

“Does it look good?” Mitch asks the person now helping him stagger slowly away from the ring. 

“Fuck,” comes a quietly strangled response in a voice that’s vaguely familiar.  _ Snacks. _ “It, uh, that’s some Muta shit right there. Point 7 on the Muta Scale at least. Your tights are soaked. It’s above your hairline so I can’t see how bad it is.” 

Mitch smiles and grunts, furrowing his eyebrows to encourage more blood to flow. Good location, and though he hates to hardway he’ll take it if it won’t scar his face and if it gets the crowd screaming like they are. “Can’t see shit,” he tells Snacks, leaning a little harder against that muscled shoulder of his. “Get me backstage.” 

The locker room is a flurry of activity as everyone tries to fuss over Mitch which he  _ really  _ wishes they wouldn’t do. Esther finally gets the situation under control by pulling the EMT card. “Alright, kids, let me work here. He might need stitches and I can’t do shit with everyone crowding and yelling. Back to the dick jokes or whatever you guys like to do back here!” She only comes backstage during a show if someone’s been hurt; otherwise she does normal CEO type stuff like count money in concessions or paperwork or something. 

Mitch grits his teeth as she pulls a bottle of antiseptic from her bag and gets to work cleaning the blood from his face and head. “Yuck,” she winces once she gets a look. “That’s gonna need a few stitches. Want ‘em here or want to go to the ER where they’ve got better anesthetic?” 

“Here,” he answers immediately. This ain’t their first rodeo. Without needing to be told, Mitch clears a spot on a bench and lays down while Esther pulls a suture kit and a couple packages of sterile draping from her bag. She sets up quickly and as she gets to to work sewing his head back together Mitch looks anywhere but at her to take his mind off the pain. His eyes find a disturbed-looking Snacks watching from a short distance, the side of his neck streaked with Mitch’s blood. 

When their eyes meet Snacks’ expression softens into concern and Mitch can read the unspoken  _ are you okay? _ written on his face. 

Mitch just smirks at him. 

  
  
  



End file.
